Five to One
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: Kirk's hallucinating, the purple panda is surprisingly friendly, and the crew doesn't seem to be coming to the rescue. AKA: Five times Kirk saved his ship and crew and one time they saved him.
1. Five Four

**_Five to One_**

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** T or PG-13 for illness, injuries, violence and pandas

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek. If I did, this would not be posted under fan fiction.

**Warnings:** Delirium, Bugs, Pandas, Blood, Illness and more.

**Author's Note:** A story in two parts partially written while I was on vacation then cut to pieces and revived once I returned. The original ending has now been worked into another story of mine which I will post before I end up in my hectic school schedule. This story is unrelated to my others do to some timelines inconsistencies. As always, self-edited so be gentle but most of all, please enjoy.

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He knows he must be hallucinating and it isn't because he's seeing a purple and pink panda in the corner of the room. The panda is the only thing he is certain of because it's been here since he was unceremoniously tossed through the trapdoor in the ceiling. Back then, it viewed him with unmitigated hostility, nipping his arms and legs whenever he got too close to it. But, as time had passed, the panda learned to accept him and he learned that when the panda sat down somewhere, it was his cue to move to the opposite side of the room. This understanding, coupled with the fact that he could not stomach the food provided for them so the panda got a vast majority of his share, now lets them dwell with each other as unwilling but consenting cellmates.

No, it is not the panda who is staring at him with its magenta eyebrows dipped down, gnawing on one of the green, stocky plants they received for dinner. The panda actually makes sense to him, as does the food and his surroundings. What makes him certain of his delirium is far more logically-- oh, how proud Spock would be if Spock could express such an emotion-- conceived. First, he figures he's quite ill at this time. His whole body is quaking and no matter what he does, he cannot still it. He feels hot, cold, dry and damp all at once which is confusing to his torpid mind. There are sharp pains through his torso from his tight chest, all the way down to his painfully bloated stomach. He pairs with this the fact that he has not even tried to eat for several days and comes to the conclusion that he cannot possibly be well. Second, he is vividly reliving sections of his life on the opposite wall. It's like watching a huge view screen on the dull, black rock. It's all in third person, and he's fly-on-the-wall viewing some of the more extraordinary moments in his short captain's career. The tiny, rational part of his brain has warned him that this is a sign of mental degradation.

A grinning, self-assured young man paces across his vision and he knows that this is he only a few months before. He stares at this through half-lidded eyes, not bothering to flick away a bug crawling near his face because it will waste energy, and decides that the delirium isn't too bad. Unlike some people he's seen fall into the bouts of mental instability, he is neither violent nor crazy. He's merely seeing things that aren't there and, though he'll never tell a soul, he's a bit glad of it. This may be the last time he ever sees his friends. Two weeks ago, he resigned himself to the fact that they would not be coming for him. This is not pessimism but realism. He's been here for over two months and Starfleet will only allow one of their best ships to hunt for a vanished crewmate for so long. Besides, just because they aren't coming doesn't mean he's giving up. Even as sick as he is, he clings to the fact that he will find a way out. Like so many times in the past, he'll rely on his own abilities to scoop himself from a dire situation.

This doesn't change the fact that he wishes they'd come in, guns blazing, attitudes roaring and rescue him. He misses them, all of them, from the witty Uhura to the whiz kid Chekov to cranky, loyal Bones. And even Spock at his very worst is better company than the panda who is now moving on to his plate of food. He'd kill to have any of them here right now, even if they were captured as well, just to provide him with real companionship. Rescue, admittedly, would be the better alternative and a dark, dark side of him that he doesn't want to acknowledge feels strange that they haven't. After all, he's rescued everyone so many times. This dark side doesn't begrudge them it. No, this dark side wryly comments that it figures; after all, what happens to the guy who does the saving when he needs to be liberated?

He jerks a little violently and startles the panda. It drops the food and proceeds to start licking its paws. Tiny white eyes watch him with keen interest that is making him more than a little nervous. Turning his attention away from the creature, he tries to focus on the never ending movie of his life playing on the wall. This is not the typical end of the road thing that he's heard about from those who have come close to death. They talk about a sudden flash, a condensed version of all their actions fit into mere seconds before they blacked out. What he's experiencing is much longer, far more drawn out, and better, he thinks. He's not getting tiny pieces-- like Bones' laugh and Spock's amazing eyebrows-- but the situations in which he's had those things happen.

Right now, he's seeing one of the many times he saved his beloved ship and its crew. It occurred just after Nero. They all finally took in a breath, reported to the infirmary and did the necessary things-- like assessing the severe damage done to the Enterprise. He was wandering the ship, congratulating people, being captainly for what he was sure was the last time and carefully, avoiding Bones when everything had suddenly gone black. Pitched into darkness, he staggered about, waiting for emergency lighting to come on. When this did not work, he pawed in his pocket for a tiny transportable light and used it to find his way down to engineering. He knew it was bad already but hoped-- beyond all hope-- that he was wrong. They had come too far-- and he'd fought some big fucking Romuluns-- to go down now.

Scotty's response was simple. "We're dead in the water, Captain." The Scotsman, who, with his permission, had taken over the Engineering Department, looked panicked. "Nothing-- no life support, movement, nothing."

"Can you fix it?" Kirk asked, keeping himself calm.

Scotty's hands were hovering over a completely burned out panel. "I don't know. I really don't know."

His next sentence, as he watches it, sounded very mature and not much like him, "Mr. Scott, I need to know immediately whether or not you can get our life support back up. If not, I have to start evacuation." It hurt to think about but he had little choice.

"I might," Scotty said softly, pulling out a tool. "I just don't know if I have time."

He grasped the man's shoulder then found his way back up to start organizing evacuations. Without the central communications system, he relied heavily on communicators. It was not as difficult as he would've imagined. Though exhausted by their trials, the crew handled the news like champions. The heads of department met him on the darkened bridge and he'd assigned each of them to taking care of their people. Those who floated were given over to Spock. Everyone, he informed him, was to get onto shuttles and head towards the nearest habitable planet. Though Starfleet had promised to send help, who knew when it would come, and they had no time to waste. Injured first, able bodied people second; department heads boarded after they were certain they had everyone; the last department to leave would be Engineering.

"Captain," Spock said as the others dispersed to fulfill his wishes. "How do you intend to open the doors to the shuttle bay? Full power outage will make this nearly impossible."

"In the works, Spock," he replied, throwing the Vulcan a tired grin. "Take care of your people. When everyone's loaded, the doors will open. I'll make certain of it."

He returned to Engineering where Scotty was cursing so violently, with his accent so thick, that he had no idea what was really wrong. "It's a blown part," the man hissed, holding up a mangled group of wires and metal. "One downfall to this otherwise beautiful craft. She's got an Achilles Heel here." He tossed it down in frustration.

"Can you fix it?"

Scotty ran a hand down his face. "If I had seven, eight hours and a better set of tools, maybe. But we may have thirty minutes 'til we're purple from cold and bloating from lack of air. I'm sorry, sir, there's nothing else I can do."

"There is," Kirk answered. "Tell me what it's for, how to reattach it, and then I want you to route some of the left over power from the dilithium crystals to the doors on the shuttle bays. If there's anything left over, set up an SOS signal in case someone comes this way. Once that's done, get everyone on this deck onto a shuttle."

Scotty did what he could, without asking why which was much appreciated, and soon, he was alone, sitting at a table with a portable light. Before him was his communicator, transmitting to the communicators that each head of department had. This was not what he had expected only a few hours before as they'd escaped the black hole. He'd thought, as he'd ridden the high of success, that he had proved his theory of no no-win situations. He'd been king of the world, briefly, thriving on the power of Captaincy. Even knowing he'd have to give it up most likely would not have pulled him down then. Now, he felt the resignation that he was certain his father felt as the ship had blown up around him. 'Like Father, like son,' he thought as he signaled for the shuttles to leave. He gave his final directions to be careful and to keep a sharp eye out for Starfleet Command. Then he'd turned his com off and gotten to work.

The temperature drop was swift, the air thinning too fast. Soon he found himself light-headed, sick and so cold that his hands trembled as he worked on the part. Electronics had always been fascinating to him and while he was no savant, he'd rewired his motorcycle to run more efficiently. At the time, it had been practice so that he could get a job at a mechanic's store nearby. Now, he wondered if providence had directed him to that to give him a chance of survival here. All he had to do was fix this, he thought as his mind slowed down. He'd moved by now to where he had to attach it so that he would not have to try later, when he had even less air on his side. There were only two more wires to go; two and he could give it a shot. His stiff fingers did not want to bend but he forced them. Then, the last wire snapped.

The part dropped down onto the ground with a clunk and he sat back on his haunches, his breath coming out in short gasps. This was fixable, he tried to assure himself. He only had to find a wire to replace it with and then he could reinstall. The Enterprise once again would surf the seas of outer space. Even as he thought it, he felt as though he was grasping at running water. Realistically, by the time he found the wire, it would be too late. 'Sorry, beautiful,' he thought. 'I tried.' He raised the light up to look at the connection point, knowing that there was nothing to do but wait now.

Then it struck him. Sticking the light in his mouth, filled with a sudden vigor, he dove into the opening, his hands snatching the wires and rearranging. It was like his bike; why hadn't he seen it before? The conduit was good to have but it was unnecessary. Yes, this gave them a slightly higher chance of frying the warp drives but with those already ruined, there was no reason to fret. He attached, removed, redid and finally, turned a knob. About him, the entire ship came back to life. If he'd had even a smidge of energy, he would have cheered. Instead, he slouched down on the ground and prayed the shuttles were not out of range.

He knows that they weren't. This happened a while ago and even as the instant replay fades, he recalls the triumph of success twice in one day. He cradles that feeling close to himself, letting it strengthen his weakened body. If only this escape could be as easy as finding the unnecessary piece and removing it. But the only similarity here is that he feels so cold and his lips are just as chapped as they were in the last dire seconds before he was successful. Besides, his limbs have become so flaccid that he doubts he has the dexterity to perform any such task.

Before him, he sees another time he successfully kept his ship and crew from biting it. This was a time that proved, despite Uhura's insistence to the contrary, that he could be a diplomatic if he so chose. This was Berengaria V, a planet rife with civil wars and generalized lawlessness. They were sent as an outreach ship to a camp of refugees, all their storerooms filled with supplies and their minds filled with the orders to help in whatever way they could. He personally prepared several landing crews with a whole range of personnel-- doctors, scientists, engineers, etc.-- to give support and, with permission, had beamed them down to the camps.

It went well for nearly twelve standard hours before they lost contact with the ship and then with three of the four landing parties. His own was captured not much later by a battle weary group and Uhura, whom he'd kept near for her excellence in the language, informed him that they had landed without permission and were now considered hostile forces. As leader, he'd immediately stepped forward to explain them but the highest ranking member of the military party was the flunky of a flunky, making him utterly useless. They dragged him away from his crew to the mostly decimated capital to be judged for supposed war crimes. The new emperor, he was informed in broken Standard, would pass judgment upon him for there was no judicial system in place yet on the newly revolutionized planet. And if that went badly for him, his ship, already held by a tractor beam, would be shot out of the sky. He sat in silence for most of the trip, weighing his options and decided that he only had one course of action.

So, he stood before the Emperor and told the truth down to the last word. They'd been given permission by the last ruler and their only intention was helping the innocents caught in the crossfire. No, they had not aided the other side. No, they had no plans of starting their own revolutionary group. No, they were not trying to claim this land in the name of the Federation. They believed in peaceful solutions, he explained through the translator to the Emperor's right, but they also believed in non-interference as much as possible. Then he offered, as the Federation had offered previously, to help the refugees on the planet with the supplies he had.

"If that's not what you want," he finished. "Then I ask you let my ship, crew and me depart. We will vacate as quickly and ably as we can." He wanted to throw on a threat, to add an "or else" but he bit his tongue, hoping that this man would be reasonable enough to simply listen.

The Emperor looked reasonable to him. He'd initially pictured an older, plump man who had played the old bureaucracy and convinced the young that he meant change. However, the Emperor was nothing of the sort. He may have had a decade on Kirk at the most, with thin boned features surrounded by dark, thick curls and covered in sun darkened skin. His face was marred with cuts, one nasty enough that a physician spent most of the meeting attempting to patch it up. He carried a weapon and wore a blood splattered uniform. If any emotion could be put to his eyes, it was not conniving but compassion.

"This I would like," he said softly, in broken Standard. "My people need help. You will give this to them."

Something crawls over his arm-- a bug maybe?-- and he is distracted. He has no strength to knock it away as it crawls up past his elbow towards his shoulder. All that's left to him is the hope that it will not make its way to his face. This lasts for mere seconds as it creeps over his shoulder and onto his neck, its feelers brushing under his chin. It scuttles up onto his cheek, making its way towards his half-closed eyes. He can feel its feet near his nose just before it suddenly disappears. Purple fur fills his vision as the panda bear takes a seat next to him. It holds the bug in its paws, studying it with bearish interest before shoving it into its mouth.

It's blocked him from the wall and the hallucinations for the moment. So he lies there, savoring those images of his crew, focusing on his successes instead of his weaknesses. This will be enough to see him through this bout of illness, he decides, as his stomach clenches at the panda's crunching. And after that, once his strength's back, he'll find his exit. If he has to be diplomatic, he will. If he has to be clever, he will. It's all a matter of finding the one point of weakness and combine it with whatever strength he has at hand. A long, spine jolting shudder travels from his feet up through his back, all the way to his scalp. It paralyzes his mind for a moment and when he comes out of it, the panda is staring at him again. It raises a paw to hover over his head and he wonders if it's going to finally try to kill him. The paw drops slowly, and he wonders if he'd ever survive the mockery of being taken out by something so…pink.

The touch, when it arrives, is gentle. The pad of the paw, a dark maroon, is downy soft and cool against the warmer parts of his skin. Slowly, it rubs over his face-- forehead, nose, cheeks, chin-- and then onto his neck. The other paw pets his hair, in a slow, soothing manner. If he wasn't so tired and, clearly, delirious, he would've found all this attention to be completely disconcerting. In his state, however, he finds it comforting in a bizarre fashion. If he doesn't look too closely at the furry face, he can almost pretend that someone else, someone human is doing this instead of a previously hostile creature. His eyes close suddenly, of their own accord as the repetitive motion lulls him into sleep.

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See you Friday.


	2. Three Two One and One

**For rating, disclaimer and general ramblings please see Chapter One.**

**Author's Note:** This is officially my thirtieth published and completed story under this pen name. Quite an achievement for me, considering my muse rarely likes to publish more than a story every few months. I would like to thank everyone for their kind support-- from reviewing to adding this to their favorites. Now, please enjoy part two!

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He dreams. This time, it wasn't diplomacy or mechanical skill. It was something more subtle than all of that. They had a rough few months and every face, including Spock's in his own way, wore an expression of pure exhaustion. Three war torn planets, four new discoveries, one unfortunate incident with an escaped animal on the ship and two dozen dead with over one hundred injured; no one could deny they needed rest. After checking on those wounded in their most recent expedition on a planet filled with mice, he found himself in his quarters, contacting Starfleet. Two things were undeniable for him: first, they all deserved a few weeks of shore leave and second, the Enterprise was in severe need of maintenance. Scotty could keep things running on toothpicks and spit but in the long run, parts were a necessity.

That's why his famous temper came through when he was informed that they were expected to be on Berona II in three standard days. At first, he thought it was a joke. Then, when it was obvious to him that it wasn't, he thought that his reports were not clear and attempted to explain what all had occurred in the past few months and that their last chance for shore leave, after finding a place that was literally a party planet, was denied. None of this struck home for the Commander in front of him and he was told that his orders were not changing and that he was expected to carry them out. He cut the transmission without giving an answer and spent an hour taking his frustrations out on a pillow.

He knew they could not take another mission, even a simple one. His crew, well-tempered for extreme conditions, had already given everything they could. Two of his best officers, Sulu and Uhura, were on medical leave for at least another two weeks. He had lost twenty four talented men and women and those who had survived the various skirmishes were strung out. They were all walking powder kegs, himself included, waiting for the right spark to set them off. Even a routine check up on a primitive planet could lead to spontaneous combustion and tragedy; he wasn't willing to risk it.

So, he called Starfleet Command once again and demanded to speak to the person who gave the orders. After hours of being passed from one higher up to another, he finally was placed in the hands of Admiral Pike who was informed, as he appeared on the screen, that he'd better get control over his goddamn prodigy before someone took official action for the kid's attitude.

"What is it, Kirk?" Pike asked. "You look like hell."

"Thanks, sir," he replied, through gritted teeth. "Been a tough couple of months."

Pike nodded. "I know. I keep tabs on your reports."

"So, you understand why my ship and my crew needs a break."

"Yes, I understand why," Pike answered, "and that's the reason you all will have shore leave the moment you finish the check on Berona II."

His stomach dropped a bit. "Sir, we need--"

"Kirk, listen," Pike interrupted him. "We have been spread thin ever since the incident." Because while everyone had gotten commendation awards for their actions against Nero, speaking about it had somehow become a social taboo. It was merely an incident and when someone referenced 'the incident' everyone knew what it meant. "There's nothing more to be done. You have your orders. If this is part of your need to rebel--"

"This is not my 'need to rebel'," he snarled. "This is the third time I've requested leave and the third time its been denied. If this mission is so damned important then send someone else. My ship is being held together by string and toothpaste and even my Vulcan first officer has been worked into a stupor. I am done asking for leave, sir. I am demanding it for the sake of four hundred lives and an important fleet vessel." He was trembling, something he never did no matter how terrible the situation. What did he have to say to make them listen?

His mentor stared at him for a moment before saying, "Kirk, this decision isn't mine to make."

"Then bring me whoever has the power," he snapped. "I'll wait right here."

He ended up waiting for seven hours. During that time, he ordered the ship move to the nearest approved planet for leave that had the appropriate facilities for repair and restock. Chekov had just sent him an update when a new face appeared on the view screen. It did not look happy.

"Sir, I would respectfully," he emphasized the last word, "like to inform you that my crew will be on leave for two weeks and that during this time, my ship will be receiving necessary repairs."

The man had a deep frown on his face which wrinkled his entire visage. "From ranting demands to telling me what you intend on doing. Strange, Captain Kirk, I thought that a year of service had taught you that you are part of the military now. This isn't a democracy. This is you listening to what we have to say and then obeying."

The words spilled out of him without any damper to soften them. "Sir, I frankly don't give a shit. I tried following protocol and all it's done is brought suffering to my people and to my ship. My first duty is to them, not you."

The expression on the man's face went from perturbed to angry in a matter of seconds. He waited to hear he was being court marshaled, or taken away from the ship, or being thrown out. "I have approved leave for your people, Kirk, and repairs to be made on your ship. However, during that period, you will be coming here to have a personal chat with me about your attitude. Under--"

He gave the commander a grin and ended the conversation there and then. Somewhere, in a file folder, he knew that a little black spot was being added to his list. In real life, he jolts awake as something snuffles near his ear. His cellmate's fuzzy face is inches away from his own, invading his personal space. Its eyes are squinty as if its trying to see him and having difficulty. He wants to get away from it, wants to crawl over to a corner as he has so many times before this, but his body is beyond his control. It forces him to deal with this creature as it examines him with long intakes of breath. Then, with no explanation whatsoever, it drops him, stands up and walks away. The warmth of its presence leaves with it and his whole frame is suddenly wracked with chills. The wall is visible to him again, the giant view screen of his life, and he wanders into memories.

There was a bomb on the ship. A bomb; oh God, a bomb and it went off. What was he supposed to do first? He could not remember because his head was spinning around and around, drifting like a piece of flotsam on the ocean. If only he could nail it to his shoulders so it would hold still for just a second. Everyone on the bridge was unconscious. Was there a leak? No, no leaks; it was still habitable. He needed to call Bones. Bones could fix things. He had to call Bones so that medical could get up there and put everyone back together but communications were down. He stood and staggered his way to the ladder system. Grip the rungs and move! But he did not remember going down them. Only that he found level after level of destruction until he reached medical. They were already on alert so he told them how many floors he'd passed and continued through destruction, chaos, throwing orders, taking names and would someone get this damned thing moving again. Find out who planted the damn device and why and how, he snarled at any lowly ensign who passed. Send security around. This ship is in code red, pull yourself together, Lieutenant! He pointedly ignored any discussion of how he felt and tried desperately not to fall over every time he stopped moving.

Tenacity rewarded him. He was the one who found the perpetrator in the bowels of the ship with another bomb in hand. He stepped in at the nick of time and listened to the ranting, raving, and threats. This man had been chosen to fulfill this duty. This man could not fail. But this man was unlucky because Kirk had a very strong driving force behind him. So, when it came down to the fight, he was prepared, he was chosen, and there was no doubt who was going to win. That didn't mean it was an easy battle. He was told, when they found him, he was nearly dead and the man was barely discernable as a person anymore. They were fished out of space like a sad, sorry toy and towed to a station where everyone huddled for weeks. He recovered, barely, thanks to Bones and his hardy staff and then was sent off to have some one on one time with a different sort of medical official. This person drew up a full psych evaluation in which he made his position clear. He would do anything to protect his crew and his ship and no, he didn't feel an inch of fuckin' guilt over killing the bastard. Yes, he would do it again and again and again. And for some reason, the psychiatrist didn't suspend him for further inquiry. She merely marked it down and sent him on his way.

The grate leading down into his chamber lifts up and one of his captors, Garren, pokes his head in. This is a familiar past time as he has shown a proficiency for escaping without being noticed. Twice a day, someone would make certain he hadn't made another break for it. One panda-- in for its masterful crimes (yes, he's given the panda a past where it cunningly took over a city composed completely of cheese but was overthrown by a rat with two heads and no tail) against the universe-- check. One Starfleet Captain-- in for the Federation's infuriating meddling until some sort of treaty was reached-- check. He likes it when Garren comes because Garren gives him news when possible. But judging by his face, that is not the reason he is here now.

Garren has in his hand a weapon which, with one dispersal of energy, paralyzes the target for a solid thirty minutes. He shoots the panda immediately, without question and without any aggression on the panda's part. Kirk braces himself for similar treatment, wondering if this means cell transfer. He knows that they prefer to keep humanoids with humanoids here and that his only reason for being paired with the panda is that they have no extra space. Up until now, he would not have minded a person to speak with but the panda's sudden change in disposition has made him less eager. He's not up to fighting for dominance right now. He and the panda have a workable relationship so being left alone is fine by him. Of course, this could just be a closer examination of the cell's integrity or, and this is laughable, they could want to take him to the primitive sick ward upstairs. He prays it's not the latter.

Garren swings down from the opening and creeps over to where the shivering, mess of a prisoner lays. He watches Garren with glassy eyes and only the vaguest amount of interest. The bits of his life on the wall have once again become more interesting for his easily distracted mind. Garren nudges him with the tip of a shoe and when that elicits no response, he calls upstairs in a foreign language.

Minutes later, he's grabbed under the arms and dragged out of the cell. As he's moved, he can see the panda lying on its side, its blue tongue lolling out of its lips, its eyes staring into nothingness. He wishes he could've spoken to it, thanked it for its one minute of kindness and then cussed at it for its abusive ways. But it's far too late for such actions and he has no strength to fulfill anything more than basic necessities such as breathing. Even that seems difficult as someone drops him on the wooden floor next to the grating. Each rattling breath takes more energy than the last and he's starting to wonder if this is the end of the line after all. Not that he doesn't think he can still win. He just needs to ascertain if his body's giving up because that means he needs to kick it into gear.

They get him upright and try to make him walk. He cannot even keep his back straight or raise his head to help them as they move his body forward. Someone is cursing in the language, and the one of his left, not Garren, slaps him across the face. His vision grays out almost immediately and he knows he's a dead weight in their arms. His body's drifted away from him and he's following his memories again, this time seeing them on the back of his eyelids.

It was a drunken poker game. He was three sheets to the wind when he sat down with the other Starfleet Captains, so pissed he couldn't see straight. He'd been informed, when they were docking, that he would be trading assignments with one Captain Cornelius Umbrage for a few months in order to broaden both their horizons. Cornelius headed a smaller ship whose main purpose was archaeological expeditions and he'd not seen much of battle or frontier exploration. When Kirk had said he preferred his own ship, he'd been told that it wasn't his decision and that he would return to it in a few months. So, in retaliation, he'd gone off and seen just how many shots he could do without passing out. He believed then that he did his best work when he was drunk as well, so he convinced himself it would help him get back his ship. Cornelius, having consumed six bottles of Budweiser Classic and enough hard liquor to kill a small army, was playing across from him. Mostly, people were betting orders-- not particularly uncommon-- and Kirk's fuzzy mind had decided that he could weasel Cornelius into trading assignments with him. Bluffing his way through three hands and then losing two, he let his fellow Captain's confidence rise. Then, making certain to slur his words extra thick, he'd mumbled, "I bet, on this game, your ship against mine." And he'd won with a royal flush.

Really, it did not matter because everyone still did the duties assigned. It was a gag, for fun, relieving the officers momentarily from the harsh reality of not having control over their own existences. Kirk had staggered home to his ship for his last night before transfer and Cornelius to his. The next morning, Kirk awoke to the news that the man had left in the night for no explicable reason and, while en route to the next assignment, the ship had exploded. While he had no proof of whose fault it was, he always suspected that it had something to do with Cornelius. To this day, he still thinks that if he had not played that game, it would have been everyone he cared about instead of a ship full of archaeologists.

He comes to as they step outside and into the light of two suns. The guard has been replaced by Garren's partner Shadra and he hangs between them. They hold him gently-- Garren has generally been very kind to him and Shadra has followed Garren's example-- his arms draped across their shoulders. Even so, he has difficulty breathing, cannot focus and most definitely, cannot comprehend what is going on. He has not been allowed outside since the time he scaled the prison wall using a couple of eating utensils and a cup. The fresh air feels good, the perfect mixture of heat with a breeze, and he savors it. Maybe they think he's dying from whatever he has-- silly, because he knows he isn't-- and they are giving him his last moments outside. His eyes aren't focusing well in the brightness of the day but as they drift about, he catches sight of a group standing in the distance. It's over the dusty earth and across a bridge but he cannot mistake the Starfleet uniforms. They are blurry figures molded out of blue, yellow and red but he doesn't have to see their faces to know that these people are his people. His body still is useless and heavy but the rest of him soars.

They've come for him.

"Looks like they finally want you back, Kirk," Garren says.

His throat doesn't work or he would inform Garren that they've never stopped wanting him. They are his family-- the family he chose because of their unmovable loyalty and love-- and they have been working non-stop to get him released. It's not that they suddenly decided they missed him. No, it just took time to get everything done, the mechanics, diplomacy, sass, violence and pure luck. But his throat's closed up, his voice is broken and all he manages is to let his head drop to his chest. His feet are dirty and bruised in the orangey haze and he cannot imagine the rest of him looks much better. His whole body, previously uncooperative, looses its tension. The comfort of his crew's presence drains his energy just as much as whatever illness he has. Garren squeezes his fingers and uses his free hand to tilt his chin up.

"Listen, Kirk," he states firmly. "Listen to me. This is as far as I can take you. You need to make it across the bridge on your own. It is neutral territory. I cannot enter, they cannot enter, or the treaty is broken and you are back in here. Do you understand?" He blinks and is grateful that Garren takes this as a yes. "I like you, Kirk. And because of that, Shadra is going to give you help that no one can know about. No one. Ever. Or peace is ruined. Can you get there?"

Of course he can; as soon as he can get his carcass to listen to him again. It must reflect in his eyes because Garren gives him a tiny smile and nods to Shadra. He takes Kirk's weight and Shadra draws a hypo from his belt. There's a sharp pain against his neck but suddenly his body's responding to his commands again. He's shaky, hurting and dizzy but he manages to get his knees to lock. Garren pulls away and he's standing on his own, swaying like a drunk, but ready to go. Garren's overly red lips twitch further into a grin.

"Thanks," Kirk rasps.

"You're men love you," Garren tells him. "That is all I need to know. Thank them. They established the treaty on both sides and forced it trough legislation. You may work for dishonorable scoundrels, James Kirk, but you and yours are good men. Go with the wind on your side."

He doesn't say goodbye because he wants all of his energy to be spent on getting himself to everyone across the bridge. His feet trip him up and his arms don't work to stabilize him but he gets to the bridge. From there, he decides foggily, it should be easy business. The bridge has a railing that he clings to for dear life. He uses it to pull his body forward and concentrates on how the faces are starting to become discernable. Spock's pale skin and calm façade contrast with McCoy's nearly frantic worry. It's familiar, it's good and it's a rescue.

He gets halfway there when the shot really starts to fade away. The strange numbness and trembling come back, worse than ever. His stomach throbs nastily, trying to explode out of him like something from a bad horror story. He loosens his one hand from the railing and braces his middle. The world tilts first one way and then another. His vision fades at the edges bringing the colors, beautiful, primary colors, of his crewmates shirts into sharper focus. The fingers on the railing suddenly aren't clenching anymore but he's so close, only ten feet away, so he tells himself it doesn't matter. His feet shuffle across the concrete, covering the first foot, then the second. The third passes him just as his knees start to tremble too violently to carry him. He can't see anymore, can barely breathe. Just a little farther, he coaxes his body, a little farther and then he can rest. But there are some things that simply aren't physically possible. Suddenly, he's falling forward, the energy shot spent.

He expects to hit the ground, to be stuck out in the middle of the neutral territory until his body is reduced to dust. But there are footsteps and hands catch him, pull him close to a heaving chest. He's dragged the last few feet-- he knows it-- and lowered onto luxuriously soft material. The hands brush his face, touch his neck, pull open his eyelids. He catches a quick glimpse of well-loved faces, hears garbled commands and feels a tender kiss pressed against his forehead. The same lips brush his ear and he can almost make out the voice as his mind travels to unconsciousness.

"It's okay, Kirk, we have you."

Another voice. "Just a little longer, Jim. You're almost home. You owe me quality time, even if it's in the sick bay."

"Hang on, Keptin."

And he does. He's saved them more times he can count. He figures he'll hold out to let them do the same.


End file.
